


What Brings Me to You

by virdant



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Anxiety, Character Turned Into a Ghost, Gen, Getting Together, Ghosts, Happy Ending, Humor, M/M, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-25
Updated: 2017-01-25
Packaged: 2018-09-19 20:18:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9458867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/virdant/pseuds/virdant
Summary: Viktor Nikiforov's new apartment is haunted—he's less bothered by this than you'd expect.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Super thanks to [Mikachi](https://www.instagram.com/kinokodoncosplay/), [Pannchi](https://www.instagram.com/panngelicious/), and [Adzusai](https://www.instagram.com/adzusai/) for all of their help during this whole process. Special thanks should go to Mikachi for saying "I like Ghost AUs" and Pannchi for providing awesome feedback throughout the entire writing process and Adzusai for putting up with long blocks of text in the group chat while studying for all of her exams. 
> 
> This is part of our weekly creative challenge! My goals are to write 3-5k a week and to actually get those words on the internet occasionally (when I write fanfic).

Viktor hasn’t washed a single fork since he moved into his new apartment. 

He hasn’t had to. Every night he left his dishes in the sink and the next day they showed up in the drying rack, clean. The first time it happened he had wondered if Yakov had gotten concerned about his health and hired somebody to clean up after him. The second time it happened he had wondered if Georgi had decided to work off his grief over his ex-girlfriend by stress-cleaning other people’s apartments. The third time it happened he had wondered if Yuri Plisetsky had broken in for the express purpose of smashing all his tableware only to get confused about what smashing meant. 

That was when he decided he needed to set up a camera. Really, _Yuri Plisetsky washing dishes?_ Viktor chuckled the entire cab ride from the ice rink to the electronics store, and then a little more as he browsed the camera set-ups on display.

“Can I help you?” the saleslady echoed, furrow etched between her brow.

Viktor, who was never one to begrudge temporary amnesia given his own penchant for forgetting promises, was cheery to repeat himself. “Yes,” Viktor said, leaning over the display to beam at her. “I’m looking for a camera to figure out who’s washing my dishes.”

The saleslady stared blankly back, “Excuse me?”

Really, Viktor thought slightly peevishly as he finally made his way out of the store, camera in a plastic bag with the store logo cheerily emblazoned in neon green. At least he only needed to be reminded once. 

*

The next day, Viktor returned all of the equipment and asked for something simpler.

*

Viktor was many things. As a record-breaking figure-skater who choreographed his own routines, he was well aware of not only his limits but also his planning abilities—which were excellent.

So he was quite confident of his plan, which was to buy take-out, use as many utensils as possible while trying to plate the food artfully on his ceramic plates, toss the take-out and disposable silverware away, eat said food, and then carefully fill the sink with fragile, easily-breakable tableware, trying to make as large a pile as possible without smashing any of the dishes that Yakov had made him buy that one time.

Having made said pile, he contemplated it—one hand twisted in Makka’s ruff—from a safe distance away.

Baby monitors were amazing things, Viktor decided as he stared fixedly at the screen even as the minutes ticked steadily by. From his room he had a vantage point of the sink and the delicate trap he had set. Any moment now, he would find out who—Yakov, Georgi, or Yuri—was washing his dishes.

Any moment now.

Any moment…

Viktor woke up the next day bleary-eyed with an empty sink.

But Viktor, despite his reputation, was a patient, enduring man. He went to practice, and this time after practice he stopped by the grocery to pick up lean chicken breast and vegetables, as well as some cooking oil, salt, and a spatula. Then he went back into the store to buy a pan. Tools in hand he returned to the fray, prepared to bait his trap. 

He cooked, ate, and very deliberately tipped the pan into the sink as airily as somebody who was deliberately trying to airily tip a pan into a sink could. He spent half an hour constructing a delicate tower of tableware, holding his breath at the very end lest he exhale too sharply and ruin the whole thing. Satisfied with his new trap, he retreated with Makka to wait.

The next morning, he woke up to a gleaming kitchen. Even the _stove_ was scrubbed clean of the detritus from cooking.

Viktor Nikiforov had not become five-time world champion of men’s figure skating by _luck_. He had made it to the top with hardwork and dedication (just a few hashtags to accompany the practice selfies). He was a _fighter_ but more importantly he was _stubborn_.

That weekend, Viktor hosted a dinner party.

Or, that is to say, Viktor tried.

*

“No,” Yuri Plisetsky said before Viktor could even open his mouth. 

Viktor tried his most winsome smile. It was a good smile, in his opinion. Reporters loved it, at least.

“No,” Yakov said before Viktor could even approach with said smile. “Don’t even try that.”

“Yakov,” Viktor whined, stringing out the last syllable as piteously as possible. “Yakov you don’t even know what I want.”

“Unless it’s to practice quietly and without complaint, you’re right that I don’t want it,” Yakov shouted back.

Viktor canted his head to the side, considering. From this distance, and that volume… Yakov probably had another few shouts in him before he was _actually_ mad.

“Don’t you think about it, Vitya!” he roared.

Viktor skated away, doing his best to look like he had always meant to do such a thing. He stopped by Georgi, swinging an arm amiably over his shoulders. “Georgi,” he sang.

Georgi stared back at him, heartbreak in his eyes, mouth tight with grief and possibly more than a little bit of murderous rage.

“Never mind,” Viktor decided.

So that weekend it was just him and Mila, staring at the lean chicken breast and steamed vegetables. She poked it cautiously, but ate the entire thing. Afterwards, she helped him stack the dishes as precariously as possible in the sink, and then joined him in the living room with the baby monitor. She said, “So what is this really about?”

Viktor eyed the kitchen cautiously and whispered, “I think this place is haunted.”

There was a very loud, very conspicuous crash, and Viktor and Mila stared at the baby monitor as a terrified man materialized to stare at the remains of what had once been 70% of all of Viktor’s breakable dishes.

“Well,” Mila said, staring as the man who was most certainly not in the kitchen ten minutes prior began sweeping up the shards with a broom that Viktor was pretty sure he didn’t actually own. “Well,” she said, staring at the monitor screen. “I think I’m going to go home now.”

“I’ll call you a cab,” Viktor said, because he was a gentleman.

*

“Hello,” Viktor said, to the monitor screen.

The ghost stared back, or at least Viktor thought the ghost was staring back at where he was standing. It was hard to tell from the monitor.

“My name is Viktor,” he said.

“I know,” the ghost said, or really _vibrated_. Viktor smiled despite the way the ghost communicating made his teeth rattle. “I mean. You’re Viktor Nikiforov.”

“Yes,” Viktor said. “Do you know about me?”

The ghost turned a faint lavender on the monitor screen.

“Wow,” Viktor said. “Amazing. Your entire body turns purple when you blush.”

The ghost turned a vibrant, buzzing, violet and began to disappear.

“No! No, no, no,” Viktor said hastily. “I meant it in a good way!”

The ghost mumbled, “You’re Viktor Nikiforov,” again, sounding a little shell-shocked.

“And you’ve been washing my dishes!” Viktor said cheerily. “What’s your name? How did you die? Can you also do my laundry?”

The ghost made a sad buzzing sound. “I’m Yuuri,” he said.

“Yuri?”

“Yuuri,” the ghost mumbled. “Yuuri Katsuki. Um.”

“Oh!” Viktor beamed. “Hello, Yuuri!”

“I don’t know how I died,” he added, sounding a little bewildered. “And um, I guess I can do your laundry? I haven’t tried.” He flexed his hands. “I don’t really have a body.”

“Amazing!” Viktor exclaimed. He swung the monitor in delight.

Yuuri’s buzzing grew louder, and Viktor could barely hear him through the increasing vibrations rattling through his skull. “Um, I’m sorry for breaking your dishes,” he added.

“It’s fine!” Viktor said. “I didn’t like them very much anyways. But why do you wash dishes? Aren’t ghosts supposed to flicker lights and turn off the heat? You aren’t a very good ghost, are you?”

“Um,” Yuuri said, turning a vibrant magenta, and with a cacophonous buzz he disappeared.

“Wow,” Viktor said to the empty space. “I wasn’t done asking questions.”

*

Viktor woke up to most of his tableware in the trash. While he was asleep, Yuuri had also taken the time to carefully write out _sorry_ in neat English with the blue ceramic shards. Viktor wasn’t sure whether to be more impressed that Yuuri had written out _sorry_ without a body, or that he had managed to find only blue shards.

He tried saying that it was no problem, but the batteries in the baby monitor had died overnight, so instead he plugged it in to charge and went into practice. 

Mila did not show up to practice.

“Vitya!” Yakov roared. “What have you done?”

“Did you give her food poisoning?” Georgi asked.

“Hmph,” Yuri said with an expression that said he was trying not to look concerned.

“Nobody trusts me,” Viktor wailed into his empty kitchen that evening, swinging the monitor around a finger. “Yuuri, you trust me, right?”

“Um,” Yuuri said, materializing. 

“Yuuri.” Viktor curled his mouth over the syllables, drawling them out slowly. He shook the monitor in lieu of shaking an immaterial ghost by the shoulders. “Yuuri, were you listening?”

Yuuri nodded. “It’s hard not to,” he said with a faint, static-y crackle in-between his left eardrum and brain.

“Nobody trusts me,” Viktor said, flinging himself into a chair. He made sure to land in a dramatic yet artful flail of long limbs, relying on years of core exercises to keep his landing graceful. “Yakov blamed me and Georgi asked if I gave her food poisoning!”

Yuuri asked, “Um, did you?”

“No!”

“Okay,” Yuuri said, settling awkward before him, wringing his hands. Each time his fingers twisted the static inside Viktor’s ears let out a sharp _screech_. “I believe you.”

“Really?” Viktor asked, not even wincing at the next pop of static.

“Really,” Yuuri said. He nodded earnestly, twisting his fingers one more time for good measure. Viktor twitched his jaw to try to equalize the pressure. “I believe you.”

Viktor beamed. “That’s the nicest thing anybody has ever said to me, Yuuri!”

“Um.”

“Even nicer than when Yakov said my quad flip was shaky!”

“Um.” Yuuri’s fingers twisted. Viktor’s ear popped.

“You’re really nice,” Viktor said, leaning forward a little, smile easing. “You did my dishes.” 

Yuuri said, “Well, you’re Viktor Nikiforov.” He wrung his hands and Viktor’s other ear popped. “You’ve won five Grand Prix Finals.”

“You know figure skating?”

Yuuri stared at him, violet glow fading to a soft teal. “Yes,” he said, slowly. “Yes, I do.”

Viktor beamed.

Slowly, Yuuri smiled back.

*

Over the next week, Viktor learned three things about Yuuri.

The first: as a ghost, Yuuri couldn’t actually make sounds. He tried to look up why this was the case online, but after searching falling through the Wikipedia trap several times—once, he emerged two hours later having read about French Revolutionary Time—he gave up and simply accepted it.

As a result, when Yuuri talked, Viktor pretended that he didn’t hear a perpetual buzz of static somewhere between his eardrums and his brain. If he was more scientifically minded, he might have come up with a theory involving energy and the nerves that sent signals from his ears to his brain. Since he wasn’t, he just beamed through the buzz.

The second: Yuuri was an excellent cook. Despite being an immaterial mass of energy, he was surprisingly capable of cooking, cleaning, and performing other hospitality chores. Having learned that Wikipedia was a trap, and also having no desire to learn more about the French Republican Calendar, Viktor didn’t even bother to try to research why. Observing or recording Yuuri didn’t provide any clues either. 

Instead, he left practice early to eat katsudon once a week, and steamed vegetables with lean chicken all of the other days. The food didn’t seem to be any changed after being cooked by a ghost, so Viktor simply lavished praise and wolfed it down.

The third: Yuuri had an astonishing tendency to disappear when nervous.

Viktor was lavishing praise on the latest meal that Yuuri had cooked. Yuuri, feet half a centimeter inside the floor, laughed nervously back, wringing his hands and sending loud pops of static echoing through the space between Viktor’s ears.

“Keep yourself together, Yuuri!” Viktor cried, dropping his cutlery and knocking over the monitor to clutch at Yuuri even as his arms dripped away. “Keep yourself together!”

“Uh,” Yuuri said. He laughed again, nervous edge bleeding away even as his arms solidified under Viktor’s grasp. “Did you make that pun on purpose?”

Viktor smiled back as his fingers tightened on _arms_.

*

One evening, Viktor asked, “Do you want to go ice skating with me, Yuuri?”

“What?” Yuuri squeaked, materializing with a pop. In the weeks that had gone by, Viktor had gotten used to seeing Yuuri in the corner of his eye. If he turned his head, he could sometimes see him, translucent and shifting from blushing violet to steady royal blue. 

Viktor twisted to crane his head over the back of the sofa, scanning the kitchen. There was a pile of dishes in the sink waiting for him to wash. Viktor was hoping that Yuuri would forget that Viktor had agreed to wash his dishes in exchange for Yuuri’s cooking. “Ice skating,” he repeated, carefully, trying his most persuasive smile. “Do you want to go with me?”

“I heard you the first time!” Yuuri flickered at the corner of his vision, violet splotches spreading through him. “Um. Um. Why?”

Viktor squinted back, mouth twisting up as he tried to keep Yuuri in sight. “It’s ice skating,” he said. “What is there to ask ‘why’ about?”

Through the static in his ears, Viktor could hear footsteps like water puddles. Yuuri blinked into view beside him. “But I’m not.” He gestured vaguely at him, incorporeal and feet hovering a centimeter above the hardwood floor.

“It would be hard to rent skates,” Viktor agreed, amiably. “But maybe we can figure something out.”

He sank so he was sitting in the floorboards. “I don’t need to rent skates.”

Viktor leaned forward. “Really?”

“I can—” His legs twisted around as he levered himself up and through the floor. “I can just—”

Viktor blinked at Yuuri wobbling on a pair of skates, complete with toe-picks. “Wow!” he exclaimed. “You can make your own skates!”

Yuuri’s legs molted violet. “I—”

“How do you do that?” Viktor slid off the couch to poke the skates. His finger went through with a tingle not unlike getting shocked by static electricity. He jerked it back and shook his hand out. “Amazing.”

He grimaced back, sliding through the air above the floorboards. “I don’t know,” he said. He shuffled a little, as the skates slowly faded to house slippers in his usual muted blue, “It’s harder to not have them on.”

Viktor said, “So we can go skate then!”

Yuuri squawked. “Viktor! We need to wash the dishes first!”

*

Mila barely had to wait before Viktor had wandered off the ice. “Viktor,” she asked, “are you still haunted by that ghost?”

Viktor pouted, but he never gave up a chance to talk about Yuuri. “He has a name.”

Figure skaters were notoriously superstitious. Mila eyed the air around him warily before fiddling with one of her many lucky charms. “Okay. What’s his name?”

“Yuuri!” Viktor beamed.

“What?” Yuri snarled across the rink.

“No,” Viktor said, leaning over the edge of the rink to wave his water bottle carelessly at Yuri Plisetsky still practicing his routine. “Not you. Yuuri.”

“What?” he shouted again.

“Oh no,” Viktor said, thoughtfully. “This won’t work.”

Mila’s voice rose incredulously. “Your ghost’s name is Yuri? _Yuri_?”

“Alright that’s enough!” he snarled, swinging up beside them with a burst of freshly-shaven ice. “What the fuck do you two want?” His neck craned as he swung to glare at the two of them. “I can _hear_ you two on the ice.”

“Not you,” Viktor sang.

“Viktor’s ghost,” Mila explained.

“Huh?” he demanded.

“Yuuri,” Viktor said, again, wondering why everybody else seemed to have more memory problems than him these days. “He haunts my apartment.”

“You think I haunt your apartment?!”

“This isn’t working,” Mila said, frowning slightly. “We should give one of you a nickname.”

Viktor tapped his lip. “What about Yurio?”

“That’s cute!” Mila exclaimed, clasping her hands together. “You’ll be Yurio then, Yura.”

“Huh?”

“Yurio it is!” Viktor chimed cheerfully.

“Why do I get a nickname and your dumb ghost doesn’t?” Yuri snapped.

“Well it’s a ghost,” Mila pointed out. She took another drink of water. “You aren’t supposed to anger ghosts.”

Viktor nodded. “You shouldn’t call Yuuri dumb,” he added. “What if you hurt his feelings? Then he might not cook dinner for me.”

*

“But you really should cook your own food. And wash your own dishes.”

“Yuuri,” Viktor whined from where he was sprawled on his couch, Makka at his feet. He had skipped out of practice early again, but how could he not when Yuuri had told him he was going to be making katsudon. He made grabby hands at the bowl in Yuuri’s hands, ignoring how petulant and childish it made him seem. “You can’t withhold katsudon from me. That’s cruel torture. Outlawed by the Geneva Convention no less.”

“I made it!” Yuuri held it up, eyeing the pork cutlet thoughtfully. “What if I wanted to eat it myself?”

Viktor sat up, dislodging his dog. “Yuuri, you _wouldn’t_.”

Yuuri knelt down by Makka. “Makka, do you want katsudon?” he cooed, reaching forward to scratch Makka behind the ears.

Makka barked happily back, nosing at the katsudon bowl.

“Ahh,” he scolded, pulling the bowl back. He grinned up at Viktor, a far too triumphant smirk pulling his lips.

“Cruel,” Viktor rasped. “This is cruel unusual punishment. I didn’t know you were capable of it.” He clutched at his chest, fingers spasming against the cotton of his gray sweatshirt. “Yuuri, you are a cruel tormentor.”

Yuuri laughed. “Will you wash the dishes?” he asked, rocking back on his haunches. Makka followed, nosing at the bowl, and he was gentle as he nudged the poodle away.

He didn’t even need to think about it. Dishes were a small price to pay for the cooling pork cutlet bowl. “Yes,” he breathed, rocking forward to clutch at the bowl around Yuuri’s fingers. Yuuri’s fingers were warm as Viktor’s hands passed through them to cradle the wooden bowl. “Anything for you.”

Yuuri flushed violet. “For my katsudon,” he said weakly.

“Your katsudon,” Viktor agreed, pulling the bowl back. Yuuri’s fingers slipped away as if they had never been there. “Anything for your katsudon.”

*

Viktor eyed his hands. “Yurio, do my fingers look pruney to you?”

“What?” Yuri stared at him. 

“My fingers,” Viktor repeated, patiently, waggling them before Yuri’s face He was momentarily surprised at how little he had to raise them to shove them before Yuri’s eyes. “Yuuri made me wash dishes last night—”

“They look like old man hands!” Yurio shouted. “And my name is Yuri! Not Yurio!”

Yakov, from where he had been instructing Georgi, roared, “Get back to practice, the two of you!”

Viktor arranged his face into puzzled disbelief at Yuri Plisetsky’s latest outrage. “Me?” he called back.

Yakov shouted, “I know you started it, Vitya!”

Viktor called back, “But what if I can no longer land quads because I’ve gotten too old.” He spun backwards in a circle, clutching his (pruney) fingers to his chest before extending his hand in Yakov’s direction. “Yakov, it’s all over for me. My hair is thinning and now my hands are wrinkling. The next thing you know I’ll be forgetting things—”

“You already forget things!” Yuri shouted. “You promised to choreograph my senior debut and _have you_?”

Viktor stared. “Oh!” he exclaimed. “I forgot!”

Across the rink, Yakov heaved a monstrous sigh. 

Yuri screeched, “You _forgot_?”

“Well,” Viktor said, reasonably, as he skated away. “I’ve got better things to think about. I’m being haunted by Yuuri, aren’t I?”

“ _I’m_ Yuri!”

*

Yuuri studied Viktor’s fingers thoughtfully, holding it and twisting it back and forth. “They look fine.”

Viktor pouted. “That’s a relief,” he said, leaning forward. “What would I do if they got wrinkled and old?”

Yuuri laughed, and Viktor’s ear only tingled a little. “You aren’t old.”

“You don’t think so?” Viktor asked, leaning back to stare up at the ceiling. His hand fell listlessly by his side. On the stark white of the ceiling, Viktor could trace the path his skates took, one routine after another, Free Skate and Short Program, year after year, rewinding faster and faster and faster until it was just him, six years old and dancing on the ice on his own.

“You’re amazing,” Yuuri said, his presence warm and fluttery at Viktor’s side. “Every year you surprise me.” His fingers slowly wrapped around Viktor’s wrist. “Ever since I saw you skate,” he breathed, voice parting the static, “it’s been a never-ending chain of surprises.”

Viktor tilted his head forward, eyeing Yuuri. “Really?” he asked.

Yuuri nodded, faintly mauve.

“Yuuri,” he murmured, leaning forward. His hand slid through and to the side of Yuuri’s thigh with a quiet warmth. “Yuuri,” he murmured again.

He squeaked.

“Yuuri, why haven’t we gone ice skating yet?”

“Eh?” Yuuri shuffled backwards as much as a ghost who was half lodged inside a couch could shuffle backwards. The static intensified for a second before it popped with a sharp squeal and faded away. “I mean. We can. I just—”

Viktor sat up, leaping to his feet with a bound that startled Makka napping in the corner of the room. “Let’s go! We should go skating, Yuuri.”

“But—”

He turned. Yuuri was hovering beside the couch, slippers slowly shifting into skates. His eyes were wide behind his glasses, his bangs lank over his forehead. If Viktor reached forward, he could take Yuuri by the hand, by the wrist, by the elbow. He could pull Yuuri forward and out through the sun and into the cold of the rink.

Viktor said, “I want you to surprise me too.”

*

Yuuri trailed behind Viktor the entire walk, each press of his feet against the pavement feet leaving silvery blue imprints behind Viktor’s footsteps. They faded as Viktor walked forward, leaving no trace on the streets of St. Petersburg.

“I thought you were haunting my apartment,” Viktor said, finally.

Yuuri mumbled something.

“What?”

Yuuri mumbled, “It’s you.”

Viktor blinked.

Outside the rink, Yuuri finally said, “I saw you when I was a child.”

Viktor tilted his head and said, “You saw me?”

“You were on the television,” he said. “I wanted to skate like you.” They walked into the rink—Viktor had a key—and with each step Viktor thought he could hear Yuuri’s footsteps echoing with his.

“Ah, I’m lucky aren’t I?”

“I took lessons,” Yuuri said, as if Viktor hadn’t said anything. “I thought that I could one day stand on the same ice as you.”

_And then I died._

Viktor froze, the words cutting through his mind.

Yuuri kept walking forward, brushing by Viktor’s shoulder like a quiet sob. “And when I woke up,” he said, steadily, “I was here. In Russia. With you.”

Viktor could see the ice through Yuuri, pale, cold, glittering under the bright lights. Away from his kitchen and the sound of pork frying, Yuuri’s silence seemed even more stark. With each shift of his chest, Viktor thought he could almost hear him breathing: each inhale a gasp, each exhale a sob.

“And all I could think was that I would never be able to skate on the same ice as you.” 

Viktor swallowed. It tasted of regret.

“You asked me how I died,” Yuuri said. “I don’t know. It doesn’t matter. All that matters is you—skating with you. It’s my only regret, and if I get it fulfilled I can’t—”

“No, Yuuri,” Viktor said. 

“I’m glad I got to spend time with you,” Yuuri said, and this time he smiled. “I’m glad—”

Viktor jerked forward, falling through Yuuri, pale and thinner “You matter,” Viktor said, twisting to face him. “You do matter, Yuuri.”

“I’m just energy,” Yuuri muttered, turning away.

Viktor choked. “Was that a joke?” 

The back of Yuuri’s neck was a dusty mauve. “It’s true,” Yuuri mumbled, fingers pressed against his face. He shook his head. “I—”

Viktor reached up and pulled at Yuuri’s shoulder to turn him around. He was flushed, and the action only made him flush brighter red.

“Yuuri,” Viktor said, curling the name in his mouth, he reached forward, his hands sliding through Yuuri’s pale arms. “Yuuri, come ice skating with me.”

He stared back. “I can’t,” he said.

“You can,” Viktor swore. “Skate with me. You do matter, and—”

“Viktor.”

How could he make Yuuri understand? How could he explain that Yakov hasn’t stopped scolding him for skipping out of practice early, but he couldn’t help it since it gave him more time with Yuuri. How could he explain that Mila kept mentioning exorcists in casual conversation, but that would mean ending his time with Yuuri. How could he explain that Yuri had informed him that one Georgi was enough, so he better stop pining after Yuuri—but that would mean.

“Stop haunting me.”

Yuuri’s breath caught. “What?”

They poured out of him like the sound of tap water running over his dishes, like long steady breaths as the blades danced on the ice, like the sound of Yuuri’s laughter: bright and joyous and echoing across the hard edges of his apartment. “Skate with me, Yuuri. You matter just as much as me, and you’ll see. You have skates, already, and we’re by the ice. And you said that you wanted to stand on the same ice, so we should. This must be why you’re haunting me. You must want to skate with me.”

He stared back, as translucent as glass.

Viktor said, “Yuuri, I want you to skate with me.”

He said, “Viktor,” like a sieve, and Viktor’s words were trapped along the fine mesh of his tears.

“You’re crying,” he whispered.

The tears trailed down Yuuri’s cheeks. “I do love it,” he said. “That’s never been the problem.” He dashed the tears away and they splattered against the carpet in dark droplets. “The problem is that if I skate with you, I’ll leave.”

He stood before Viktor, pale and translucent in the fluorescent lighting, wrapped in a jacket and track pants, skates firmly on the ground. He stood and stared and Viktor could read his choreography in Yuuri’s eyes.

Viktor whispered, “There is no problem,” and reached forward. “There’s just the ice.”

“Viktor!”

“Yuuri,” he promised, “how could the ice take you from me when it brought you to me?”

This time, his fingers caught Yuuri’s, and with each step backwards, Yuuri followed, first his right foot, and then the cant of his body falling over its own weight as he stumbled, as Viktor caught him falling, as the two of them slid onto the ice, Yuuri’s body heavy against his. 

Yuuri whispered, “I’m real.”

Viktor laughed back, giddy. “You’ve always been real,” he said, leaning up. His forehead met Yuuri’s in a brief, glorious moment of skin-to-skin. 

Yuuri pressed back, cheeks flushed pink. 

“You’ve always been,” Viktor breathed. He squeezed Yuuri’s soft fingers in his. “You’ve always been real to me.”

*

The next day, they went back to the rink. This time, Viktor kept his fingers twisted with Yuuri’s the entire walk over. Yuuri muttered half-hearted protests, cheeks rosy pink, and Viktor ignored all of them as he chattered happily about their weekend plans. “This is my boyfriend Yuuri,” Viktor said. “Yuuri, these are my rinkmates.”

They stared back. Georgi face etched still with heartbreak, Mila’s eyes wide with shock, Yuri’s mouth stretching to snarl—

Yakov shouted, “Stop introducing your ghost friend to everybody and get onto the ice, Vitya!”

Yuuri squeaked, and Viktor laughed as he squeezed his fingers—proper fingers!—once more and slid onto the ice. Viktor would practice, and after everybody else left, Yuuri would join in on newly born limbs. After practice—a proper, full-length practice for a change—Yuuri would cradle Viktor’s hands and they would walk home with the wind in their eyes and the sunset in their hair. Yuuri would cook and Viktor would whine about doing the dishes before tripping over Makka along the path to the sink, and Yuuri would kiss each wrinkled fingertip.

It had been a good dream, Viktor thought, but this new one was better.

His eyes met Yuuri’s across the ice, and his mouth curved of its own accord. 

This one was real.

*

**Bonus (deleted half scene):**

Viktor nodded. “You shouldn’t call Yuuri dumb,” he added. “What if you hurt his feelings? Then he might not cook dinner for me.”

Yuri and Mila both stared at him.

Viktor stared blankly back. “Oh. Maybe he won’t wash my dishes?”

Mila said, “You’re being haunted by a ghost that cooks you dinner and washes your dishes? Where can I get myself one of those?”

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on tumblr if you want ([virdant@tumblr](http://virdant.tumblr.com/)) for not very much yoi content, so actually don't follow me if you're hoping for a yoi friend. but I do promise a lot of rambling about whatever I am working on at the moment. 
> 
> the entire time i was working on this fanfic the file was titled "actually not a boyband AU" so I promise I'm working on boyband AUs for YOI because that's the type of quality content I produce.
> 
> [French Revolutionary Time](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Decimal_time) / the [French Republican Calendar](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/French_Republican_Calendar) are real things and are kind of fascinating, so have wikipedia links.
> 
> I actually did a lot of plotting to figure out exactly how Yuuri as a ghost worked. Most of this was just so I could put in the Matter/Energy pun but then I had to edit most of the jokes out which was the saddest part of the entire writing process.
> 
> This piece was inspired by Ann Bai's awesome song: "What Brings me to You", which you can listen to on youtube [ [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aVmZpcrQBU4) ]  
> I've done a singalong translation which you can find [ [here](http://nostarwords.livejournal.com/5229.html) ]  
> Adzusai recorded a version which you can find [ [here](https://soundcloud.com/adzusai/bai-ann-what-brings-me-to-you-english-cover) ]


End file.
